


The Cathedral and the Bazzar

by arte



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arte/pseuds/arte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, what you're saying, Mr. Holmes, is that you're the Encylopedia Britannica and I'm the Wikipedia?"</p><p>"In a sense."  </p><p>"....well, I'm honoured, I guess."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cathedral and the Bazzar

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [성당과 시장](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3338891) by [Heyjinism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyjinism/pseuds/Heyjinism). 



John Watson, is certainly devastating. Prior to meeting him, Sherlock spent most of his days reading, observing, and desecting, soacked alternatively with nicotine patches and ambition as he was absorbed with playing part time detective game. Connected to the thousands of people around the world just with a thin thread of internet as he was, with the people right in front of him, he had only managed to ridicule, criticize, and get into fist fights after sneering at them for being stupid. In other words, he was like a bird which had yet to fight its way out of the egg. From the magical moment I first peered into the cradle to see the child laid in there to now, I've never dared imagine this. Having observed Sherlock, who saw a beautiful woman and only thought about her bones and muscles, about thousands of traces left on her which could have been caused by even the smallest touches, having observed Sherlock, who understood the world by projecting every laws and rules of the universe onto a cold universe sorley made up of numbers, I thought I knew who Sherlock was, what kind of brilliance he had, and how his future would pan out.

John Watson has subverted a large proportion of the things that I thought I knew about Sherlock. Over the years after Sherlock graduated from college, I have given the child everything he wanted, spending money on him as if he were a hidden mistress rather than a brother, and slowly waited for his talent to ripen. Flowers which blossomed too eary wilted in a snap, and Sherlock required something called discreetion above all else. Yes. Like the way I had raised a rose when I was young in a glass house in my childhood home, watering, shading, sometimes catching ticks, that was the kind of attention that Sherlock needed. He possesed a sensitive soul not unlike a sophisticated optical instrument that could be broken with the tiniest scratch, and inevitably, I had to teach him how to observe every emotion with a distance, like wrapping it up with thick velvet. Sherlock Holmes, my brother, my friend, the only other that I love, was also the most apt pupil. As he turned all his attention to his pure inherent curiosity, that basic, burning sensation, learned the effective way to block the attention he recieved from ordinary people, built up sturdy shell to protect himself at the price of exchanging affection for contempt, attention for hatred, and finally ended up hating even me, I thought he was safe at last. His bright, shining world - perhaps for me,it was something that I would never be able to touch upon but only perceive and stare, yet for him it was in easy disatnce to grasp where he only had to reach out and pull - was safe at last inside a radiant solitude, perched upon the cold, sensitive, and fragile shell, a web woven with ice, surrounded by the firm shield of indifference against humanity. I thought it would be enough for me to simply watch him as his talent ripened as due time had arrived, blossoming at last and spreading the fragrance everywhere. Some highly important intricacies, I knew and believed, shouldn't be shown to the world before its due time, not until it had been completed with that kind of delicacy. 

"It's not unlike a differnece between Wikipedia and the Encylopedia Britannica," I say placidly, taking into account that this idea of mine could be considered incredibly odd to some others. John stares at me disbelievingly, then smiles.

"So, what you're saying, Mr. Holmes, is that you're the Encylopedia Britannica and I'm the Wikipedia?"

"In a sense." 

"....well, I'm honoured, I guess."

John Watson, is like a bustling bazaar. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Good Lord. With his hands shaking so, thirsting for battle grounds? Even like that, coming back from a war, sinking into depression and seeking out therapists, John always manages to leave favorable impression of himself to others, mingle well, and look like he could be friends with anyone. It doesn't matter whether or not he would actually open up to those who approached him like that. He attracts others, to put it extremely, like a vacuum cleaner attracted everything without discreetion. And those who has approached him so create a new connection, endlessly causing small and big incidents in John Watson's life. Like, for example, Dr. Stampford, a former fellow intern and a man who still considers him a good friend without a doubt, introducing him to Sherlock. John Watson delegates things in his life to others when it is possible, and does his best to help when he could. Like when he became a soldier and saved countless lives at the front line despite certainly having other options. Sherlock, whose mind was like a serene and sacred cathedral even though his house was a mess scattered with miscellaneous articles he had pulled out, has somehow ended up spending his days in a bazzar like environment before he knew it, fighting and negotiating with John Watson on who will pay for milk and whose turn it is to wash the dishes. Everytime I have entered 221B, it seemed like it would take miracle upon miracles for one to build a reasonable and steady tower of thoughts, which would allow one to ascend to the higher level, in this market place. 

"But what does that mean?"

I do not know, either. What does that mean. Why is Sherlock still able to think, deduce, and keep his senses sharp even without miracle upon miracles happening.

"Doctor, I'd like to hear your opinions on certain topics, and to begin with, what is your opinion of me?"

"Can I speak freely?"

"Please."

"At first I thought you were a, mafia boss, a middle boss villain or something."

"I am aware of that."

"After that... well, I thought you were a pervert."

"Oh."

"A brother stalker."

"....My, my."

"And I thought Sherlock probably became such an eccentric person because he had a strange older brother like you, Mr. Holmes."

"....I'm not so strange as to warrant that."

"You appeared to."

John watches me, sitting a bit uncomfortably in a old chair at the corner of my office. His eyes lands for a moment on a bull dog with an Union Jack cape on the desk. A reflexive smile creeps at the corner of his mouth. He is a solider, and as such is showing a natural reaction at the sign of patriotism. The mere fact that I work for my country has been enough to garner certain level of good will in his heart for me, a man who appeared to him as "a mafia boss, a middle boss villain, pervert, and a brother stalker". Perhaps his thought pattern has a tendency to be very simple, very much simple indeed, but- 

He's an unyielding person. 

That's why, despite his life and his relation being not unlike a marketplace, his path of life can be drawn in a elegant line like a ball flying in an arc. He knows how not to lose himself among all those people. That's why odd self-purification occurs arround him. It's like Wikipedia, where if an intoxicated drunkard were to willfully ruin a post in it and run, other people would patch it up before next morning and even imporve it in some cases. I know now that I can't hide Sherlock from the world forever as if he were a treasure covertly hidden in a deep, deep basement of a covent. That the time has come for the child that has been a treasure for me, for the intelligence that shined brighter than any jewels, to become a treasure and an object of admiration even to the others. That he no longer needs to run to his deep and intricate Mind Palace, blocking, severing, ignoring every personal connection as if he were on the run. That if he jumped into the world, he won't get disintegrated in the air, and more than that, he would spread his influence over the world in unimaginable speed, becoming famous. I slowly spread my hands, letting go of another me whom I have hoped to reforge and one day work alongisde with like letting go of a handful of sand that has already slipped half way through my fingers. 

"Doctor."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Have you ever read the book called _The Cathedral and the Bazaar_."

I mention the book written by a famous hacker of open source, knowing that he, not being a programmer, wouldn't have read it. John thinks about it for a while, and mutteres in a tone that lacks confidence. "That one, I think I saw that among Sherlock's pile of books. The one with colourful pictures on the cover."

"That's correct."

"Do I have to read it?"

"Well, it wouldn't hurt to."

"What's it about?"

"You may have heard about free software. When it comes to developing free software, there is the Cathedral model, in which only a limited amount of people are allowed to touch the source and present it to the world after it has been perfected, and then there is the Bazzar model in which everything is made in the open, with people discussing and patching the source as it goes." 

"Hmm."

"Until now, I thought I had to use the Catheral model for the making of my brother."

"You mean, placing him under your serveillance, stopping him from behaving anti-socially, that kind of things?"

"In a sense. But now that he has _a friend_ like you-" said I, insistantly putting a emphasis on the word friend, as if to plead him not to cross that line. "That kid, would also change."

Perhaps, my idea was wrong from the beginning. It might have been arrogance to think that a reasonable and appropriate method for me would also be perfect for Sherlock. When the best course of action was in doubt, I should have tested a common opinion at first. I should have trusted that child's maturity and strength as much I have trusted his exceptionality. It has been me who still tried to keep him in a tall tower, even though he has already matured and knows how to keep a mental balance as well as any other adults. Feeling bitter lament and emptiness, I stare at the man who had already jumped deep into my brother's heart, the first other that appeared on that child's fragile Eden made of intelligence. 

"From now on," instead of saying, _please don't take that kid away from me,_ I offer my hand. "Please call me Mycroft."

"Alright, though I might just call you Big Brother on occasion."

"....As you wish."

The firmly shut door of the cathedral opens and light spills in. 

Over the image of the office door opening and John walking out, I overlap the image of Sherlock opening the cathedral door and setting out to the world. In here, in this place where even sunlights cannot touch, deep, majestic, and cold, I'm left alone again. At the age of seven, I remember crying in covert happiness that I would never be left alone again. Now, with my tears dried and my blood colder, I merely stare at the door slowly closing. I must now let go of the retreating figure I will forever wait for, but won't ever have again, merely accepting this bitter, bitter reality.

**Author's Note:**

> I loved the relationship between Mycroft and Sherlock depicted in this fic. I hope I manage to convey the beauty of this fic to you x) I have to confess, I had agonized over how to translate the last exchange between John and Mycroft. I had to tweak one line pretty heavily. The direct translation for the last exchange is actually this:
> 
> "From now on, please call me Mycroft."
> 
> "That seems a bit forward. Can I call you 'big brother' instead?"
> 
> "....As you wish."
> 
> In Korea, it's considered a bit forward to call someone older than you by their given name. So instead, terms like 'big brother' or 'big sister' are used to call someone older than you, but these terms are informal. Calling someone 'big brother' shows that you're close to/friendly with that person. So in this exchange, John was saying that while Mr. Holmes was too formal, Mycroft wasn't a comfortable term for him either, which made him propose the term 'big brother'. 
> 
> I didn't know how to convey all this so the tone of the dialogue is kind of off. I apologize for that.


End file.
